/lit/ - Literature

Book VIII (Part 1)

Such a somber countenance…
we were in our former foothills now
the torturing plain longer again to the sallow waters
the disturbances of the moon that much more distant in
the wood where I tried my last cashed greenery;

When I got up to receive her…
Such a young being in my scheme,
she was leaning on my borrowed car,
looking down her unlaced bust after the act,
her cheekbones caught the bounds of my perception...
the only supports that sifted me from her chasms,
all before she looked up and bid me adieu forever,
a scorned part of myself teetering the precipice of this quivering being,
skated her wispy lashes…

I clutched with mine own
the tail of one in vain,

as dashing myself in despair
upon odious vein of pathos,
the strings' edges seemed nary any metallic filament;
they seemed as a sliver of obsidian, a
beer neck slide whose subtle contours
swelled with momentous lava flow,
reuniting with its glass strummers;
glass was made to interface upon
runny silicates with germanium cell phones
computer chips and nanotube cylinders seceding once more…
to fit over the pervasive finger of the new lone piper,
asphyxiated face aped the Orphic gape,
entreating all amorphous conduits work together
in their minute respective circuitries to make,
and ride light the dark corneas;
every time her lids did *blink*,
they bucked me off her into a sober future…

"'How thin is a linear lifeline?'
I wonder,
can it be physical,
made of cratered asphalt
I wonder tonight
on this magnificent balls thirty-nine
County Road 1108;
all the numbers odd from east westward,
all trajectories toward conjecturable,
the nucleus of the vistas via leeward;
I finally stop running away into the night
to savor a gaze toward the beckoning lurch;
guardians asleep sans vigilance,
for murderous lethargy scattered their clairvoyant optic over
Amphetamine Valley…
In the form of flashing radio towers
(they're flashing now)
staccato tungstens oscillating through purple space,
though never attaining the blazing azure
of their metaphorical progenitor transfixing my fabric
that could only be the poseur of Argus…
Alert! Another staccato?!
Look both ways to no
animate illusion (all is dark after all)…
I yearn vacuum-mute for some wandering vehicle to intercept me,
of whose Seratonin deficients inside
would erode my Melatonin defense
into an act smooth as the Road ridden;
Oh fuck me, you swarthy passenger!
Don't even change seats, for I desire a frontal view
to the orgy turn'd leathery burgundy;
Jolt my iridescent 'Cock
'til the white lens' silhouettes
rattle feebly 'round my starless retinas
like silver coins jingle
in the tip jar of a ragass panhandler…
Lofty cedar tops envelop the wanderluster like an obscure manger…"